I’ve always been a sucker for happy endings. I started reading fairy tales in elementary school and started rewriting them shortly after. I grew tired of the prince always saving the princess. I wanted the princess to be ready and able to save herself instead of waiting on someone else to come all the while hoping he was good looking. My parents thought it was a phase at first, but when I started middle school and kept writing prolific stories, they started to change their minds.
I filled notebook after notebook with fairy tales and was trying to save enough for a typewriter. I wanted to feel like Hemingway or Twain. For the time being, my main problem was a problem of storage. Where was I going to keep my notebooks? They were quickly overflowing my sole bookcase and I couldn’t bear to get rid of any of them.
The day I came home to a new bookshelf covering one entire wall, I was in heaven. I think back on the short amount of time I was able to enjoy that bookshelf. Before the house burned and all my fairy tales went up in smoke. I cried for weeks about the loss of my beloved stories , but when Christmas morning finally dawned, I cried again. What I hadn’t realized all those months ago, was my father had ‘borrowed’ my notebooks while I was at school and typed them on his computer. My lost fairy tales were once again alive.